


The full weight of our burdens

by aces



Category: Dalziel and Pascoe - Hill
Genre: Gen, yay team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-17
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:32:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>References <em>On Beulah Height</em> and <em>Arms and the Women</em>.  All book canon, as it's been years since I've seen any of the tv show.  Title is from Vienna Teng's "Atheist Christmas Carol," perhaps the most appropriate holiday song for the Pascoes.  With great thanks to my beta, kindkit, who as always provided excellent advice.  Merry Christmas, chaosmanor!</p>
    </blockquote>





	The full weight of our burdens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaosmanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/gifts).



> References _On Beulah Height_ and _Arms and the Women_. All book canon, as it's been years since I've seen any of the tv show. Title is from Vienna Teng's "Atheist Christmas Carol," perhaps the most appropriate holiday song for the Pascoes. With great thanks to my beta, kindkit, who as always provided excellent advice. Merry Christmas, chaosmanor!

"Okay, Pascoe," Peter said, looking at his reflection in the mirror. "You were having fun, weren't you? Nothing wrong with that. That's a _good_ thing in fact. So go have some more fun."

He stared himself in the eye, trying for John Wayne and, he had to admit, probably falling somewhere around Hugh Grant. He sighed. So much for his good mood. He turned off the light and headed down the short hallway back to the front room where the rest of the party were gathered. Wieldy had, on the whole, spent more time at Pascoe's place than Peter had at the sergeant's cottage in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere (as Dalziel, in one of his less creative but still graphic moments, had put it), but Peter still knew his way around the place well enough.

Which was why when he saw something out of the corner of his eye as he passed the kitchen, he stopped and turned back.

What—or rather, who—he found didn't really surprise him, in the end. He leant against the doorway, folding his arms. "Andy? Checking for surveillance, perhaps?"

Dalziel was methodically opening and closing the cabinetry. Only a light by the sink was on, leaving the room in cool, dim shadow. "Checking for something a bit bloody better tasting than that sodding wine or watered-down lager on offer in the other room," he said without looking back.

"I'm pretty sure Wieldy and Edwin don't stock Glenmorangie," Pascoe said, still hanging about in the kitchen doorway. He was secretly a bit glad of the delay in going back to the party, the noise and people with whom he would have to be cheerful and friendly. With whom he _wanted_ to be cheerful and friendly, but he wasn't quite up to it at the moment. "Not really to Digweed's taste, and Wield can't afford it on his salary."

"Philistines," the Fat Man said without heat. He sighed deeply, like a man who had at last come to an oasis in the middle of his alcoholic desert. "This'll do me for now, at least." He turned and held up the bottle he'd found—an off-brand blended scotch. Pascoe sighed as well, for different reasons. Dalziel brought down two glasses and sat himself at the kitchen table. "Care to join me, Pete?"

Pascoe sat down unwillingly. Delay, he may want, but he knew Andrew Dalziel and alcohol. "Just the one, sir," he said, more for form than because he actually thought he'd get away with it. Dalziel poured him a generous serving, himself an even more generous one. He held up his glass and waited for Pascoe to follow suit.

"To mates," Dalziel said, and Peter swallowed dryly. A toast Dalziel had made before and would probably make again, but not so early in the evening, surely. Had he seen the look on his subordinate's face, noticed how out of sorts he had become? Peter glanced at the other man but could read nothing more than holiday bonhomie in that fat face.

"To friends and loved ones," Pascoe said, thinking of Rosie at home, Ellie and Wieldy in the other room, trying not to think about illness or fear, the fear that comes from a crack of lightning and the crack of a gunshot.

"Cheers," the superintendent said, and they clinked glasses.

"Enjoying yourself are you then, Pete?" Dalziel asked after they'd both taken a drink.

"Of course, sir, aren't you?"

"When don't I, lad?" Dalziel grinned.

"When you have to talk to Trimble?" Pascoe hazarded.

"Nay, lad, even then I'm enjoying myself," Dalziel said. He took another drink and sat back in his chair, making himself comfortable. That of course included scratching at his leg. Pascoe found himself, most unexpectedly, grinning. He hid it in his drink.

"It's good to see you enjoying yourself," the superintendent said then, unexpectedly, and Pascoe almost choked on his liquor. So, _not_ that good at hiding his emotions from Andy Dalziel after all. Naturally. "You and yon wife of thine. You've both had a tough year."

Pascoe set down his glass. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly. And for a few minutes back there in the other room, chatting and laughing with Wieldy and Edwin and Ellie and Cap Marvell and some of Edwin's friends, he'd forgotten how tough it had been. Which was why he had to leave for the toilet to collect himself when he remembered again.

He'd been surprised when Wield had invited them to a Christmas party. "Edwin," was Wield's laconic explanation, with that typical blank look he could pull out when necessary (not hard to do with a face that would defy a painter's ability to capture, unless that painter spent a great deal of time working in the American Rocky Mountains). "I need some of my mates around to offset _his_ mates." Pascoe, who knew there was more to it than that but also knew Wield would say no more than that, accepted on his and Ellie's behalf with alacrity.

There had been party snacks--delicate canapés and truffles, no crisps and biccies for Edwin, which had also led to complaints from the fat man, though Pascoe would refuse to admit how much he'd enjoyed the canapes--and wine and beer, and Christmas crackers, and soft music playing in the background, and Dalziel loudly telling crass jokes that involved Father Christmas and the reindeer, and Ellie poking at him mercilessly in that way that had mellowed over the years from righteous indignation into a certain mutual fondness and respect. Peter thought Ellie had for a little while forgotten everything that had gone on in the past year as well, Rosie's illness and the events at the Aldermans' cottage, and he hoped so. He'd have to remember to thank Wieldy later, properly. And ask Ellie to think about a really good gift to get him and Edwin.

"Here's to next year being a better 'un," the Fat Man said, a little gruffly, bringing Pascoe back to the present. He clinked his glass with the other man again, ceremoniously, and they both drank deeply.

"Another?" Dalziel said, conveniently forgetting—as always—that Pascoe had said he'd only have the one.

Pascoe glanced back over his shoulder at the kitchen doorway, dimly warm and comforting with laughter and chatter and music coming from beyond. Then he looked again at his superior, alone across from him at the kitchen table, and said, "Why not?"

*

Ellie noticed, abruptly, that Peter wasn't in the living room with the rest of the party. He'd excused himself a few minutes ago, she recalled, but she had no idea what could possibly be keeping him in the loo that long. The great oaf himself was nowhere to be seen either; and how she could have missed his lack of presence for so long made her wonder just how many glasses of wine she _had_ had.

"Back in a sec," she said to Digweed, giving Wield a smile and a wave when he glanced her way from across the room.

It didn't take her long to hunt down the two men. They sat in the dimly-lit kitchen across from each other, a bottle—of course—opened between them. She almost breezed in, ready to kiss Pete on the cheek and remonstrate with the Fat Man for leading her husband once again into a life of crime (namely stealing one lowly sergeant's and his partner's alcohol), but something about the attitude of the two men, about the stillness of the room, made her hesitate. Ever since the Command Post and Feenie and Bruna, she'd felt over-sensitive and overly cautious, hyper-aware of any emotional atmosphere around her. Ridiculous and annoying, but still she hung back now.

"It would have destroyed us," Peter was saying, his voice low. "I—I can't even let myself think about what might have happened, I break into a cold sweat and start to have a panic attack."

"It didn't happen, Pete," Dalziel said, his voice as rough as a cobblestone road. "So you don't have to think about it."

"I know. Thank God."

Ellie shut her eyes, clung to the door trim. They were talking about Rosie, they had to be talking about Rosie. She shivered.

"I never did thank you sir, did I." Peter was still talking. "For what you did—during that time."

"Me, lad? I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did." Peter's voice was heated. "You all did. You and Wieldy especially."

"Nowt more than any other bugger'd do." Dalziel poured more liquid into both their glasses; Ellie could hear the sloshing.

"Still, sir. Thank you."

Ellie opened her eyes and saw the back of her husband's head. He sat ramrod straight, so stiff his back muscles were probably trembling. He was holding Dalziel's gaze, judging by the way the fat slob was staring back at him, slumped back comfortably in his own chair, apparently at his ease. But Ellie knew better, could see the way he was gauging Peter's mood, and she wondered if they always worked like this.

"Bloody hell, lad," Dalziel said, breaking Peter's tension. He relaxed in his seat, and Ellie let go of the wall, relieved. "If you start crying, I'll thump you."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." Peter knocked back his alcohol.

"Take it easy there," the Fat Man cautioned, watching him drink with a certain amount of respect. "Liable to get yourself arrested for drink-driving on the way home. Or is the missus the designated driver?"

"Did you see the way she was putting back the wine?" Ellie almost stepped into the room then and there to voice her indignation, or rather pseudo-indignation as all she really felt was a bit giddy.

She and Peter had talked, of course, even if sometimes it had been more skirting the topic, not-talking rather than talking, and they'd both been working past the events of the past year. But it would take time, and there would be other crises to affect them before they could get over these, as they both well knew. Tonight she'd watched him laugh and have a good time with his mates and had been profoundly grateful that he could still do that, and it had let her relax and enjoy herself as well.

"No worries, sir, this is absolutely my last drink," her husband was saying, and she focused on his voice again. "I'm sure the party will be winding down soon in any case." _Translation_, Ellie thought in amusement, knowing both men well, _we should be getting back, sir, don't you think_?

"Time for one more before we rejoin that lot," Dalziel—ever the mind-reader—said, and slopped more alcohol into Pascoe's glass. "It has been a good party, but, I'll give Wieldy and yon book dealer that."

A hand on Ellie's shoulder, and she looked up in surprise to see Edgar Wield standing next to her. He looked down at her questioningly, then into the kitchen and saw the two men seated at the table, thrown into golden relief by what little light there was in the room. He smiled.

"Confab, is it?" he said softly. "Come on, then, let's leave them to it a bit longer, yeah?"

And with that, he put an arm around Ellie's shoulders and gently turned her away.

*

Dalziel was in a strange mood tonight, Pascoe thought; or maybe he was bringing a strange mood out in Pascoe. He certainly hadn't expected to find himself pouring out his deepest fears concerning what had happened to both daughter and wife earlier this year, or Dalziel merely nodding and pouring more liquor.

Andrew Dalziel: the most unlikely shrink one was ever going to meet.

But that was the Fat Man for you; even after knowing him all these years, he could still surprise Pascoe. And Peter had felt something lift a little as he talked, some part of the burden that he had carried for so long taken away.

Deep into their cups, and Pascoe found himself asking cautiously, "How's it going, sir? Between you and Cap Marvell, I mean?"

Dalziel stared at him, and Pascoe thought, _Jesus, even if I'm not a constable anymore that particular stare can still almost turn me into jelly_. But he was a chief inspector now, and made of sterner stuff, and besides which he'd heard far deeper confessions from the superintendent over the years, often involving a lot less alcohol consumption.

"As well as can be expected between two stubborn old fools," was the superintendent's answer, and he poured the last of the cheap scotch into his glass. He held up the bottle to inspect it closely. "Eee, lad, look how much you've drunk."

"Yes, sir," Pascoe said, who knew for a fact he'd only had a quarter of the bottle. A third at most. "I might end up arresting myself after all."

Dalziel drained his own glass and then picked them both up, taking them to the sink. He rinsed them out precisely and left them to drain. The bottle he left on the table.

"You should replace that," Dalziel said accusingly. "Not nice to steal another man's liquor."

"Right," Pascoe said. "It'll be my Christmas present to them both."

"You can make mine a good bottle of single malt," the superintendent said, leading Pascoe out of the kitchen and down the short hall back into the living room.

"Of course." Pascoe tried to keep the long-suffering tone out of his voice, unsure if he succeeded or not. Dalziel swung around, startling Pascoe. The Fat Man vigorously shook his hand.

"Merry Christmas, lad," he said.

Pascoe looked at the other man, thought about the past half-hour, the whole evening, and then grinned. "You too, Andy," he said.

"There you are!" Cap Marvell joined them, putting a hand on Dalziel's arm. "We were starting to think we'd have to send out search parties."

"This lot? They'd never find us," Dalziel said scornfully. "Can't trust the folk that live round these parts."

"No, sir," Wield said. "Completely untrustworthy."

"Every single one of us," Edwin Digweed agreed as he sailed past to pick up a fallen empty wine glass before the dregs could leak out onto the floor.

"Ellie, love," Pascoe said as his wife put her arm around his waist, "think we should move to Enfield?"

"Wouldn't that make us untrustworthy too?" she inquired.

"You already are," Dalziel growled, and Ellie suddenly laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "What the hell was that for?" he asked.

"Just to keep you on your toes," she said lightly and turned back to her husband. "Don't you think we should be on our way so we can leave poor Edwin and Edgar to sort out this mess?"

"This mess can wait till morning," Wield said, watching in what might have been resigned amusement as his partner tidied up used cups and plates of demolished snacks anyway. "That's what morning-afters are for."

Wieldy managed to pull Edwin away from tidying to wave the other two pairs--the last of the party-goers--good-bye from their front door. Ellie slid into the Pascoes' car while Peter watched Dalziel and Cap Marvell pull out and turn down the road, making sure the superintendent was fit to drive. Of course he was; nothing like a little bottle of cheap scotch and some lager could stop him.

He turned back and waved at the two men standing on the threshold, pausing to look about at the cottage in moonlight under a fresh layer of snow, Christmas-card perfect. He breathed deeply of the cold air and smiled. He caught Wield's eye, and the other man smiled back, an arm around Edwin's shoulders, before turning them both around and heading back into warmth and shelter.

When he slid into the car, Peter found Ellie had already put the key in the ignition in order to get the heat going. As soon as he was buckled in, she slipped her arm around him and kissed him on the mouth with that fierce intensity that sometimes dimmed but never went away, not completely, in all the years they'd been married.

"Happy Christmas," she said when she broke it off.

Pascoe thought about laughing with friends at the party, Rosie warm and asleep at home with the sitter downstairs watching the telly, sitting in a dim kitchen with his boss drinking scotch. He took Ellie's hand and squeezed it before putting both hands on the wheel to pull away and drive off into the winter night.

"Yes," he said, "I think it will be."

 

*


End file.
